


Rising

by LadyCallie



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, Character Study, Episode Related, Established Relationship, F/F, Minor Character Death Mentioned, Romance, season five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-13
Updated: 2009-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCallie/pseuds/LadyCallie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." -Marianne Williamson</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BabyDykeCate](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=BabyDykeCate).



> Written for [info]babydykecate over at [info]whedonland who wanted romance, angst, h/c, fluff, femslash and/or friendship
> 
> Prompts: nerd, muscle memory, what remains, thin line between love and hate, the writing on the wall, Faith Hope &amp; Trick, "I should tell you that you were my first love" (lyrics from The Hat - Ingrid Michaelson), Dawn has two mommies, Willow/Tara from Dawn's eyes.
> 
> Author's Note: I ran with the 'what remains' idea and it went somewhere I didn't expect.
> 
> Word Count: 1,229
> 
> Setting: Shortly after The Body/Forever.

_“The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”_

-Marianne Williamson

* * *

“Thank you again, Debra. It looks wonderful. I’ll have Dawn drop the pan off tomorrow after school.” Tara gave a final wave as she reached for the door, cradling a warm, fragrant baking dish in her other arm. She slid the deadbolt into place, picked up a cloth sack and adjusted the pan and carried both into the kitchen. She set everything gently on the island with a sigh.

Willow glanced up from her textbook on the counter. “Baby? What’s up?”

Tara pointed at the covered casserole. “That.”

“Oh no. Not again? Really?” Willow sniffed the air above the dish. “Maybe it’s different. Lasagna or something.” She carefully peeled back the foil cover, glanced and covered it up again. “It’s spaghetti. With chicken chunks... at least I think they’re chicken chunks.”

Tara made a face, her nose scrunching. “We can’t eat that again. This is the third night this week we’ve had pasta.”

“I can ask Xander to get a pizza, but that’s still red sauce.” Willow reached out, catching Tara’s belt loops with her fingertips and pulled her closer.

The blond hugged her, dropping a kiss to her head. “It’s so kind of everyone to bring us food, but I think Dawn will burst into tears if she has to eat marinara sauce again.”

Willow’s shoulders jumped a little as she laughed shortly, “I think we’d all cry.” It seemed like the entire block of Revello Drive had called and offered meals to the Summers sisters after Joyce died. It had been three weeks now of meals and support and telling neighbors that they were all doing “okay” and “as well as can be expected”, and then thanking them for caring and for the lovely meal and promising to call if they needed anything when what they needed wasn’t coming back.

“Why is it always spaghetti? Don’t they know we can manage to boil water?” Willow grumbled against Tara’s shirt, pushing the fabric aside to nuzzle her chest with her nose.

Tara sighed again, “I don’t know. I think maybe it’s just an easy dish. It was the same with my mom,” she pulled back, “After my mom, you know. Lots of pasta dishes. I think it’s just a thing.” She shrugged.

Green eyes blinked, “That’s why you don’t really like red sauce, isn’t it?”

Tara glanced at the floor for a moment, bent to pick up a towel. “Yes. I don’t mind it, but I’ve never craved it since then.” She draped the towel over the bar on the stove and moved to the sink and the few dishes in it.

  
Willow watched her rinse each dish, the water steaming faintly, soap suds covering Tara’s long fingers with foam before she bent to load them into the dishwasher. All of them had been battered by grief since Joyce died. It had been so quiet in the house during the days leading up to the funeral. Everyone was silent or whispering; scared they would make the other cry or worse yet, start to cry again themselves. The phone would ring and someone, usually Giles or Xander, would leap up, grab it and leave the room to answer. The television was on, but on mute, as commercials seemed too loud and jarring.

The girls had offered their dorm room for Dawn, who seemed to need to escape the house for a few days. But after the services were over, the flowers brought home and rearranged in vases throughout the house, neighbors set up a meal rotation for the family. Dawn returned to school, dinner returned to the table.

Tara dried her hands, the dishwasher humming as filled with water. “Debra was so sweet to make this… is it rude if I freeze it for later?”

Willow closed her book, “I don’t think that’s rude. But what are we going to have for dinner?”

“I was thinking about making soup and maybe bread. Something that would warm Dawnie’s tummy. My mom used to make a loaf of white bread to dip in soup. I think I remember the recipe.”

“Could I help? I’m not the best at cooking.” Willow reached for the patterned aprons hanging behind the refrigerator.

“I’d love it if you would. Think of cooking like a puzzle, you have to start with the basics, the edges, first.” She opened the pantry, and pulled out a bag of potatoes and an onion. She handed them to Willow, “Peel and cut these, please.”

Tara found cream, carrots, butter, mushrooms and celery in the refrigerator. She set them beside Willow, and opened a lower cabinet, withdrawing a large soup pot. Soon they had the butter melted and the onions simmering. Willow’s pile of chopped vegetables grew and grew.

“Are you sure it will all fit?” Willow eyed the pot warily.

Tara smiled, “It’ll fit, I promise.” She measured out six cupfuls of water and emptied them into the pot. “You can add the vegetables now.”

Careful not to splash the broth, Willow dumped handfuls of vegetables in. Tara handed her a spoon, and she made a tiny whirlpool in the pot.

“See? We’ve got the border complete, and you can sort of see what the puzzle will look like even though it’s not finished. Now, we’ll start the bread while the vegetables cook.” She handed Willow a bowl.

“Is this similar to my Easy Bake Oven where I just open a package and add water, then _ping!_ Instant cake in a minuet?”

Tara placed a bag of flour, sugar, milk, salt, yeast and butter beside the bowl. “Not quite so instant. You could think of baking bread like you’re preparing something in a lab. You have to add the ingredients at just the right time,” She measured out the milk and then popped it in the microwave, “and have them at just the right tempeture…” She pulled the cup out and poured it into the bowl.

“And then you get a reaction.” Willow finished for her as Tara added the yeast. “Can I stir?”

“Of course. We need to knead it after you get everything mixed though.”

Tara shifted Willow, moving behind the taller woman. She reached around her and cupped her hands in hers. “Kneading was my favorite part, besides eating it.”She curled Willow’s fingers into fists. “Dough is warm and giving, yet it’s also strong.”

Willow moved with her, pressing and pulling. “Like an Amazon?”

Tara kissed a slender shoulder blade, “Defiantly strong like an Amazon.” They worked the dough silently for a moment, the dishwasher gurgling and the soup pot bubbling around them. “Then you cover it with a towel, and let it rise. Even after it’s fluffy and round, you can punch it down and it will just rise again.”

Willow lifted the dough back into the bowl, draping a towel over it. “It’s definitely like chemistry.” She turned to Tara.

“Or magic. I used to think when my mom made bread that magic was what made the dough rise.”

Willow saw the sadness flicker in Tara’s eyes, so she kissed her, flour on her nose and dough on her hands. Heat blazed through them, tongues slow and wet, breasts pressed together, the smell of yeast and hot potato soup filling the air, infusing them with warmth. And like the dough, like before Joyce and funerals and spaghetti sauce that looked like blood, they rose together.

  
~fin~


End file.
